


a fetish blessed

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Narcissism, No Metaverse (Persona 5), Unhealthy Relationships, goro is a bad psychiatrist, implied psychopath goro akechi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 21:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18039746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: drearily bloodletting his bedwetting cosmonaut





	a fetish blessed

He is a marvel of design; a beautifully controlled application of color against what is already a bored, static city.

Dazzling within his own proficiency, he composes the world around him with a flair that suggests there is more to his surface character. He is a genius, finding a curve within stiff boundaries and like Narcissus, falls in love with his own features and with the only fair touch he can handle.

His words become stars and his stars become supernovae, torn belligerently between black holes and collapsing within their own gravity. With the decadence of the 20s and the heart of a sour artichoke, he must touch his skin through stained glass: a perfectly masked amalgamation of a soul in half.

Creatures with wire limbs and a hue akin to sapphires watch with wine-stained eyes (a soiled yellow so deep that it is almost a light orange). Their lips part in masquerade of a compassionate rose but their needle fingertips weave too many discrepancies; he moves calmly, and for now the morning maintains its subtle charge. The shower runs warmth over his back and he shudders towards the tiles, half-hard from whatever thought crossed his mind in the bare minimum and kept. He tilts his head towards the stream, water drumming against the hollow of his throat and he _pulls_.

He crowds his own wanton lamentation, appearing as a cloud of failing masculine maturity attempting to dispel the telltale itch of his own homoerotic fantasies. He mouths wetly at his own shoulder; quiet, suddenly apathetic and excruciatingly close to his own little death. He climaxes and does nothing else, standing in the stream for a moment longer with one eye towards the small window. The sapphire people seem to endlessly grow in height, weight and general size. He's sure they will tower over him soon and swarm his room: dying of thirst.

He is encased within his world, reeking of hot sulfur and match smoke, readying to be enbalmed in his own sweat.

 

* * *

 

 

It is distinctly pornographic, the way he touches Akira Kurusu's neck: two fingers, a breaths way apart and barely crooked at the knuckle. And it does nothing to quell the understated acid rising in his chest.

"You get sunburnt so easily", he comments, nail scraping the point of Akira's ear before pulling away completely. "I'm surprised, the last few days have been so overcast."

"I had a dream about you", the student admits rushedly. He cradles his mug of coffee in both hands, grounding himself, and taps his nails against the ceramic seven times before looking up. His glasses swallow his face, pinching his features and disguising him securely. "You drowned me— you chased me and drowned me. I wasn't breathing but you drowned me."

"Chased?", he questions his reflection in the window, watching Akira nod in his periphery. "Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something."

"You were gold", Akira continues with a confused squint. "Solid gold."

"Preadators dress themselves up", the idiot adds.

He doesn't laugh. It wouldn't be called professional and he already tends to pick his battles carelessly enough. He does move from the window, though, leaning his back against it with a flustered smile (easily prepared, simmered over a boiling stomach for two minutes). He can't help but think his tie must look awry.

"You think I'm a preadator, that you're my prey."

Akira hesitates. A tension, sickly sweet in nature, lapses his judgement and makes him feel ill. "I trust you", he evades, and the previously shunned laughter makes welcome in the form of a nonplussed smile.

"There's a philosophical view that anybody, under the right circumstances, can commit atrocious crimes: when all of our morals and the ability to accept reality are broken down."

"Is that your Freudian slip, Doctor?"

"And if it was?"

The sapphires outside steal his attention again, shimmering on the streets and tangling their hair in the power lines. With what feels like stones in his jaw, he gestures to them. A reluctant stiffness crawls his joints.

"Do you think any of them realise they're dying of thirst?"

Akira pauses, licking his teeth briefly and readjusting his hands around the mug: Akira Kurusu doesn't enjoy sitting still.

"What do you mean?"

"They're hollow", he answers flippantly, one hand still firmly hooked in his pocket. "It's not natural. They don't care about their lives and blame fate or God for their own faults when really they have become malnourished by their choices."

"And you're not?"

"Hollow?"

"Yes."

"My choices are fine."

"But you can't live forever. You won't."

The walls shudder with him, honing in on their owners quickly deteriorating state. What he riddles is manipulation, what he feels is a volatile jerk against his sternum and what comes out of his mouth isn't an impairment but carefully placed matches that circuit their way to the students mouth: moments away from their demise.

"Look at you", it is _excitement_ in his veins. "You're just a mess of miracles, aren't you? I apologise, I seem to have compromised the session", a glance at his watch sets off the internal timer in his skull. "Please, feel free to finish your coffee."

"I think the caffeine will just make me more jumpy."

The ineloquent, painstaking messy self-grooming of one Akira Kurusu makes his hand yearn to peel those eyes from his very skull and prepare to eat them like the ripest of stone fruits. The major-depressive university failure preens to dominance and it sickens him.

"After we move on from this relationship I don't want you to believe that I'll love you, because I will not. Tomorrow we will be new people with new ideas and new experiences— inside of me, where God put my heart, is where the man I am tonight will be. As it will be for you."

_If you survive._

"I don't want to move on from this. I want to... I want..."

The student squeezes his thighs like a child desperate for the bathroom.

"I want _you_."

"Careful", he chides, but there is no warning there. Not really. His lure has successfully picked up a stray.

"Just for tonight, then."

If there is one thing he can stand about Akira, it is his skin; ghastly pure and formed out of endless, microscopic geometry, he is sure that this moldable layer is thinner than an insects wing.

"Aren't you pretty." Proximity teeters out of balance and he reaches forward, pulling at Akira's collar and folding it back down smoothly. "Like a Leyendecker reject."

An affair, for all intents and purposes, begins with a power imbalance.

This disgusting corpse in front of him writhes with too many teeth and a gaping threshold. Hollow inside, he can see the slacking vertebrae prepare to unclick and shatter. There is anger, there. Tenacity. Akira Kurusu is subject to his own self-sabotaging crime of passion and has no control of his rapidly twitching eyelids, imitating seizures he's already prone to. How must his soul feel now, lost somewhere in nirvana and searching for that destined grave plot— looking for his decorated carcass to fall back into.

The room isn't hot but a certain humidity keeps in the air as the evening and his mind wander. In different bodies, he sees fields. Fields he can walk in and fields he can burn down... he finds comfort spots, places to hide when all he can exist as is a wall of smoke.

 _Inside of him?_ , Goro Akechi thinks miserably. _He is inside of me, burning up my insides and abusing my nerve points until his name bleeds out from under my tongue. And yet he is beneath me, gasps out onto the sheets where traces of his saliva wrestle as future evidence. I fill him. I stare at the man shaped being in front of me as disperses into hundreds of blood sucking flies and I let go. I stink of death._


End file.
